


Come Up and See Me

by tunglo



Series: Come Up and See Me [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, M/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 19:26:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15516927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunglo/pseuds/tunglo
Summary: 5 times Gavin goes to RK900's place, and one time RK900 goes to his.





	Come Up and See Me

The first time he stops by RK900’s apartment it’s an accident. Truly. Because he has a witness to interview in Unit #247B and it turns out his plastic prick of a partner is berthed in Unit #274B of the former office block the municipal council donated to the cause of robot equality.

“Detective Reed,” it says, tone flat and face blank, and Gavin hates the uncomfortable feeling that settles low in his gut as his gaze takes in a featureless white box, completely empty but for a mains outlet and a charge cable.

He saves face by making out his presence is deliberate. Tells RK - because fuck if he can call the thing RK900 until Fowler gives in and reassigns him - to get a goddamn move on, and feels that horrid pull in his gut all over again when Sandra, an AJ700 with a missing eye, ushers them into a box of a room crammed full of pot plants and craft projects.

“I was frightened,” she says simply, pretty features so mangled Gavin has to look away, and an acidic reprimand burns on the tip of his tongue when RK hesitates after her statement is finalized.

When RK stands there, back ramrod straight and face expressionless as always, telling her stiltedly,

“It is illogical to fear a further attack within the walls of this building. However, should you require further assistance I reside within wireless range.”

Gavin doesn’t want to think about compassion or understanding. Doesn’t want to reconsider his supposedly antiquated stance on their ability to feel anything.

So he jabs his elbow into hard plastic ribs once the door has closed and makes the lewdest gesture he can manage.

“Hoping to get your robodick wet, huh?”

RK only blinks at him, brows furrowing in the slightest of frowns, before continuing down the corridor.

Gavin can take a hint.

End of conversation.

\--

The second time it’s under duress. He’s got Connor flanking his left side, idiot grin spread wide across his face, and Anderson on his right, smiling softly at his government approved sexbot like it’s the moon and the stars and the fucking sun, all bundled together.

Gavin doesn’t know why he has to be there. So RK is his partner, and so RK almost took a direct hit to his thirium pump in an attempt to shield him from harm.

It doesn’t matter to him. It’s what the thing was made for.

Except his chest hurts at the sight of the torn and stained CyberLife jacket RK insists on wearing, and something clogs his throat when Connor wraps his arms about his lookalike, expression open and earnest as he explains how worried he was.

How worried they have all been.

“I am fully operational,” RK says, “there was no need to concern yourself.”

“You have to visit colleagues when they’ve been injured,” Connor chides, sounding every inch the older brother, “it’s etiquette.”

RK tilts his head to the side at this, considering.

“Very well. Your mission has been accomplished.”

Gavin snorts a badly concealed laugh and looks around at the still empty box.

Sometimes having RK as a partner isn’t completely awful.

\--

The third time he’s falling down drunk and smeared with his own blood.

He can get home just fine, he protests. He doesn’t need a tin can of a babysitter.

“Detective Reed, I must insist,” RK tells him, voice perfectly calm even though he’s had Gavin slung over his shoulder from the moment they entered the lobby of his apartment building, “you are intoxicated and liable to conduct yourself in a manner unbecoming a police officer.”

Too fucking right he is.

He’s been spoiling for a fight all night. Was finally getting what he wanted - what he needed - when RK waded in from nowhere and threatened to crush the other guy’s fist into bone dust.

“What the fuck do you care?” He demands in the present. “If you don’t put me down right now I’m gonna - I’ll - fuck. I think I’m gonna be sick.”

And he is, wretched and helpless, tears on his cheeks as RK moves him so he’s kneeling on the floor, RK’s impossibly strong hands gentle as they settle on his shoulders. He helps him sit afterwards, head propped up against the sterile white wall, gaze flickering over his face as he assesses the damage.

“Connor,” RK starts, and Gavin can practically hear the mental run through of his predecessor’s full designation, “tells me that it is usual etiquette for humans to have traditions associated with the date of their birth. Is this one of your traditions, Detective?”

It is, that’s the fucking worst of it. Every year he’s reminded of how much of a fuck up he is. How lonely and inadequate. So he drinks, and he fights, and he wakes up in the morning to the sight of a reflection he hates just a little more than he did the day before.

“I just puked down your back,” is all Gavin says, the world spinning violently, “call me Gavin for fuck’s sake.”

\--

The fourth time he’s making amends. Apologizing for being such a fucking mess, and for making one all over RK’s formerly spotless linoleum.

“You can’t wear that shit forever,” is what he actually says, eyeing up RK’s CyberLife issued uniform as the android places an unasked for mug of coffee on its designated coaster. “Even Lisa’s ditched the triangle.”

'Lisa' is the sole PM700 model who chose to stay with the DPD after the so-called Awakening, and a year ago Gavin would have been sickened by how easy it is to mistake her for a flesh and blood patrol officer.

He would have raved and ranted and threatened to put a bullet through the head of the next plastic fuck that expected him to acknowledge it as an equal.

That was how he got lumbered with RK in the first place, along with a dressing down from Fowler and a note in his disciplinary file. He’ll never admit to it out loud, naturally, but Fowler was right.

It has done him good.

Has kept him in a job, at least, because employment equality has yet to negate the fact that an android can do everything faster, smarter - better - than their human counterparts. Gavin knows he wouldn’t have a hope in hell if he walked away now, not with his track record of addiction and his ever simmering anger management issues.

Maybe that’s why he suggests going with RK to ensure he picks out something suitable. Maybe it’s just that his latest hook-up has told him that he’s found someone new.

Someone better.

He’s got absolutely fuck all else to do that evening.

So he wanders about the central shopping precinct with RK in tow, sneering and scowling and complaining, telling the android he looks like even more of a plastic prick than usual when he steps out from behind the changing room curtain dressed in form fitting black pants and button down.

If he says it with enough conviction perhaps he’ll even convince himself it’s true.

Because RK is a walking wank bank fantasy. Calm, and loyal, and broad shouldered in a way that makes his long neglected dick twitch in interest. He’s every bit as pretty as his stupid doppelganger, without any of the grating cheeriness that makes him itch to put his fist in Connor’s face every time they’re forced to work together.

“I disagree with your assessment of these garments,” is all RK says, with the barest hint of inflection that Gavin has come to accept as banter, and Gavin doesn’t explain his reasoning when he offers to drive RK home, nor when he gets out of the car and follows the android into the building.

RK says nothing either. Only holds the door open politely and places the shopping bags neatly in a corner, the smell of bleach and cleaning fluid thick in the air.

“You need to buy some fucking furniture,” Gavin points out, taking in the bare whiteness of the place all over again, “get yourself a hobby.”

RK doesn’t even argue.

“I will take your suggestion into consideration.”

\--

The fifth time he’s just lonely, there’s nothing else to it. He’s come straight from the morgue, straight from staring at some poor sad fucker who couldn’t see any way forward.

He’s been there.

Doesn’t want to go back. Doesn’t want to prove them right, all the people who said he’d never be anyone or do anything.

That he’d end up in the ground or behind bars, and the world would be a better brighter place for it.

RK opens the door. Does the stupid scanning shit though he knows Gavin hates it, that tiny frown the giveaway that he knows exactly how much Gavin’s had to drink, and how many cigarettes he’s smoked since the last time he announced that he was quitting.

“Are you going to invite me in or what then? Fucking androids.”

There’s no real bite to it.

He falters when he crosses the threshold. Stares in shock at the futon pressed up against one wall, then gapes open mouthed at the colorful image of a zen garden covering half the wall opposite. He assumes it’s one of those transfer stickers at first, until he takes a step closer and sees the way the image is made of thousands of tiny ones and zeroes.

The pens are gathered in a mug on the floor, a hideous thing emblazoned with cartoon St. Bernards.

Gavin doesn’t need to be a detective to know it’s a gift from Connor.

“A hobby is a leisure time activity,” RK says, like he thinks it probable Gavin will struggle with the definition, “I have been endeavoring to discover the most suitable.”

Gavin nods. Gazes at the picture in wonder, all over again, then drops down into the cushions and says dismissively,

“Do they deliver pizza to this shithole or am I going to have to send you out to get something?”

He can’t swear to it, wouldn’t want to be called on it in a court of law, but in that moment, in that lighting, he’s almost certain RK has the ghost of a smile on his face.

\--

The first time RK drops by his apartment it’s February. Valentine’s Day to be exact, because that’s something that RK is a fan of.

Precision, and order, and it’s enough to make Gavin wish he had thought to declutter a little at any point in the five years he has lived in the place.

Instead he rakes a hand through his dishevelled hair - fuck if he’s making any kind of an effort on his day off - and shuffles back towards his sofa. It’s too early for whatever it is RK is doing. Too early for having the subject of his wet dreams sitting next to him and announcing,

“Connor informs me that on this date humans typically present gifts to each other. He has spent a great deal of time picking out an appropriate item for Lieutenant Anderson.”

“What the fuck has this got to do with me?” Gavin asks, deadpan, because it’s still too early and because it hurts, pathetic and pitiful, to think that a washed up has been like Anderson is the focus of such misplaced devotion.

RK hands him an A4 sized envelope, bound with a perfectly tied ribbon.

Gazes at him steadily and waits for his reaction.

“Fucking androids,” Gavin murmurs and rubs his thumb along the smooth surface of the ribbon before he can think better of it. “Look, RK. Connor isn’t buying shit for Anderson because they work together. For some reason, I can’t fathom it, he thinks the sun shines out of Anderson’s fat ass. That’s what Valentine’s Day is about. The people you are - or the people you want to be - screwing.”

He offers RK the envelope. Deliberately refuses to think about how this is the only Valentine he’s going to be getting this year. Any year, maybe, because he’s hard pushed to remember the last one. His relationships have never fared well when it came to commitment, and it’s kind of difficult to hook up for anything casual when he’s spending most of his spare time with his cockblock of a partner.

Wingman is not RK’s forte.

RK blinks at him. Processes the outburst. Smiles that damnable barely there smile and says calmly,

“Are you not going to open it?”

Gavin doesn’t like to be on the back foot. Isn’t keen on surprises, and hates to feel stupid. This once he’ll take it though, he’ll take all of it, fingers plucking and pulling and revealing a scaled down copy of the image he had so admired at RK’s joke of an apartment.

“Fishing for compliments, eh?” Gavin manages, not wanting to let on what it means to him.

Not wanting to leave himself vulnerable.

“I have no need to,” RK says, fingers careful where they touch his cheek. Thumb tender where it soothes across the bridge of his nose, the scar he thought himself paranoid for RK’s seeming fixation upon. “I can tell when you like something.”

“Yeah?”

RK doesn’t answer. The cool press of his lips against Gavin’s own says everything.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, feel free to chat / hit me with prompts over on Tumblr [@serenwib](http://serenwib.tumblr.com/). :)


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